Between Breaths
by RebelzHeart
Summary: Between breaths, the Avengers are far more human. (Ignoring Civil War because all I want is peace and Domestic!Avengers.)
1. Chapter 1

Between breaths, Steve's just trying to keep his head above the water.

It's not that he can't float. More that he can't swim.

Not in a world like this, loud and overwhelming and taking away his breath every other second.

Bucky and Tony know this best because they're the ones that Steve goes to when he tries to figure it out.

Tony, when Steve wants to _try_ and become part of this new world, when he wants to learn and absorb information like a sponge.

And Bucky, when Steve is too tired to figure it out and just wants to cling a bit closer to the past.

Natasha's there for when Steve is stupid enough to try and take the plunge.

Except now, he's somehow managed to let Peter convince him to do something utterly stupid. To _walk into the city_ , just let the crowd sweep them away.

"Who cares about the world?" Peter asked dismissively as he linked his hands with Steve, offering him a bright smile. "We're like little fish. What does the ocean care for us? And besides, if you're part of something, then you can't drown in it."

It didn't really make sense, but it kind of had at the time, so Steve had hesitantly curled his fingers back around Peter's and allowed him to drag him out. A decision that he was now severely regretting. Except he couldn't exactly say that. Because saying so would hurt his pride.

Somehow Peter seemed to have figured this out, though, because he was quick to tug Steve into a little ice cream parlor, a small hole in the wall, allowing the bell to tinkle above their heads as their feet tapped against creaky chestnut floorboards. "A little much?" Peter offered Steve an excuse, a crooked smile revealing a flash of teeth as he pulled down his hoodie to show flyaway hair.

Steve allowed himself to smile back as he took in a somewhat shaky breath. "Just a little." He agreed in as light a voice as he could manage.

Peter squeezed his hand but didn't let go, something that Steve wouldn't admit to being grateful for, but would be for all of eternity. "Awesome." Peter said in a voice that very much suggested so, despite the fact that it should have been otherwise. "So, ice cream? On you."

"On me?" Steve echoed, raising his eyebrows. "Usually, if you pull me into an ice cream parlor, it seems only fair that you should be paying."

Peter puffed out his cheeks in annoyance, and then turned to pout at Steve. "But you're rich! You've got all of Mr. Stark's money and your royalties from all the Captain America merch! _I,_ on the other hand, am a dirt poor high school student. Would you _really_ exhort me like that?"

"You're the one doing all the exhorting, Parker." A voice cut in, and the server leaned over the counter as she raised an eyebrow. "Come on, am I getting my tips or what?"

A brunette with a smear of charcoal above her lips smiled indulgently. "Maya, the only one who's exhorting anybody here is _you_."

"Pft." The server rolled her eyes and shook her head, spagetti curls flying around her face as she tapped a finger against the tip jar. "I deserve it, working all these hours."

Peter laughed and pulled Steve over to the two girls. "I see that you're here again, Robin. Here for just ice cream, or the pleasure of Maya's company?"

The brunette scrunched up her nose at Peter. "If I didn't know what kind of pure child you were, Parker, Maya would be pounding you into dust right now."

Maya sighed regretfully. "Once I'm off the clock, maybe." She turned to squint at Steve. "Who's the bodybuilder?"

Steve quickly stuck out a hand and introduced himself. "Steve," He greeted them awkwardly. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Maya took his hand and swayed it from side to side, giggling slightly. "He's almost as polite as you, Peter. Then again, apologizing when you stop a robbery is a tad..."

Peter turned bright red and covered his face in his hands. "We don't talk about that."

"Riiight. Steve, right? Want to hear about how Peter..."

" _Nooo_!"

"I'd be delighted."

" _Traitor_."

"Darling, I doubt that he was ever on your side in the first place."

" _Double agent_."

"That's not a bad thing."

"It is now."

"Aw, Peter, I'm hurt."

"No you're not."

Laughter. "True, but at least appreciate the sentiment."

Growl.

More laughter.

Between breaths, Steve is just trying to keep his head above the water.

Lucky for him that there are people willing to pull him out of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Reply to Molly(Guest):** Aw, thanks!

* * *

Between breaths, Peter wonders what normal looks like.

For him, there _is_ no real moment between breaths. He's always looking, searching for somewhere he's needed, some place where he can't go as Peter Parker but _has_ to go as Spider-man.

When you're a hero, you've got no time for being a civilian.

Not that Peter would want to be. He loves being Spider-man. Really. It's a part of him.

Which might be why he wishes that he could be Peter Parker and Spider-man at the same time.

But, he muses to himself, there's no way.

"Hey, kid." Tony yawned as he stepped into the kitchen and pulled the muffin off of Peter's plate. "Mm, raspberry. Good choice."

Peter rolled his eyes and webbed the muffin back, wrinkling his nose at the fair sized bite that Tony had left in it before chucking the muffin back at Tony. "You know, _I_ was planning to eat that myself."

"My bad." Tony didn't sound very guilty.

"Yes." Peter agreed, trying to glare but ending up just pouting at Tony. "Your bad."

Tony laughed at him and patted him on the head, leaving a few crumbs in Peter's hair which he instantly tried to flick off. "Play Mario Kart later as an apology?"

Peter pretended to think about it. "Do I get to play upside down?"

"I swear, whenever you play upside down you get an insane power up or something. It's _inhuman_."

"Yes, well," Peter polished off his breakfast and raised an eyebrow. "I am part spider."

"You are _not."_

"It hasn't been disproved."

"It hasn't been _proved_."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Stark." Laughing lightly, Peter skipped off towards the living room and picked up the controller. "Well?"

In between breaths, sometimes Peter wonders what normal looks like.

Then he realizes that he doesn't need normal.


	3. Chapter 3

Between breaths, Bucky makes lists.

A list of the ways that he could die. The ways that he could kill someone. The ways that someone could kill him. The reasons why Steve won't want him anymore.

He doesn't really like doing it, but it seems real. It seems fair, something that could happen.

Between breaths, Bucky stops breathing, really.

He sleeps in the same room as Steve or Thor. When he has a nightmare, they're the only ones that could hold him down. They tried with Natasha, once, and she had to get stitches.

So it's important for Bucky to remember, to hold tight onto the idea that they could leave him any second, and if they so choose to, it's not their fault, not really, it's his, because he became The Asset and _he_ messed up and he was the one who became the Winter Soldier.

Steve, he reminds himself as Steve chatters cheerfully to him over pancakes, wants Bucky Barnes, not whatever mess this shell he's become is.

They all, he reminds himself, just need him as a useful soldier. Once he's outlived his usefulness, he's gone like that.

The thought makes his chest tight and his stomach drop, but it's a useful reminder. Without it, he just might let himself go and get attached. (But he's already attached, isn't he? And it's just going to hurt even more when he's thrown away.)

He tries to remember, he's either The Asset or he's Bucky Barnes.

He can't be this broken shell lying in between. (But it is, he is. He's not the cold, emotionless soldier nor is he the flirty, confident boy. He's something else, something a bit worse for wear, someone that's still figuring out how to be human.)

Bucky sometimes still sets a gun between him and someone else, he's not sure why, a sign of peace or a reminder that he'll let them put him down if he gets dangerous, he really doesn't know, but he does it, and he tries to pretend not to notice the way that Steve's face falls whenever he does.

(Sam's face falls, too. Tony just rolls his eyes and picks up the gun, then puts it in some ridiculous place. He found it in the fridge just last week, and while it feels comfortable, he can't help but worry about Tony anyways.

"I can summon my armor anytime I want." Tony promises him, but they both know that Tony's armor still takes time to arrive and that Tony, along with the rest of them, is just a trusting fool.

Clint stares at the gun and just says quietly, "I prefer to use a bow and arrow," but when he moves to touch the gun, Bucky _flinches_ , a dumb move, and Clint moves away, looking like he wants to punch someone.)

Natasha, though, is the one who stops him from doing that.

She slides down next to him on the couch, and before he can give her a weapon, she pulls a gun out from her waist and puts it firmly in his hands. She grins brightly at him, a shark smile, all teeth bared and lips curled, and says, "To give you a fighting chance against me."

And it would almost be laughable, if it weren't for the fact that Natasha is, actually, quite terrifying.

"You're not a threat to me." Bucky says, confused.

"And you're not one to us," Natasha agrees lightly, still smiling at him, as sweet as sugar and more terrifying than death. "But you still arm us for some ridiculous reason."

"It's not ridiculous." Bucky replies, slightly frustrated. "I could snap and kill you all any second."

Natasha makes a sound as though she's humoring an ignorant child, and answers with a disbelieving laugh, "Yeah, of course."

"I could!" Bucky protests, waving his arms after gingerly placing down the gun. "I'm a deadly, evil assassin!"

Natasha snickers this time, raising a fist to her mouth to try not to burst into laughter. "Of course." She agrees, looking like she's fighting hard to try to keep a straight face (but she utterly fails).

"I _am_!" He's not sulking. He's not.

Natasha pats his head. "Yeah, okay. Anyways, that's not what I'm here to talk about. We're here to talk about your eyeliner game, because honestly, it's this mix between 'too much' and 'none at all', so I thought you might want some makeup tips and..."

He's a scary assassin, he swears. (Nobody every believes him.)

Between breaths, Bucky learns makeup tips from Natasha.


	4. Chapter 4

Between breaths, Tony builds.

He breaths in smoke and rust and motor oil, he holds tools and nails and metal, and he listens to the whirring of machines and the screams of Metallica and tries to pretend that there's not a world out there that could be very well crumbling.

FRIDAY is there, but she's no JARVIS, she's quiet and soft and obedient when Tony forces her to be, and she tries to be kind but in the end she doesn't have the same exasperated fondness that JARVIS had.

Which, Tony reminds himself, is utterly stupid, because JARVIS was just an AI anyways.

Between breaths, he locks himself in his workshop and builds and he only lets Pepper in, but even that is only sometimes because for all that she loves and cares for and is kind to him, Tony can't help but sometimes feel that she should be out there, conquering the world, and Tony's just a burden holding her back from World Domination.

Not that Pepper plans anything of the sort, but Tony knows that she's brilliant and figures there's no way that she _won't_ conquer the world, sooner or later. (He bets on sooner, but who is he to say?)

Sometimes, Bruce and Rhodey come in, but Tony has forgotten what it's like to feel safe because of anything other than a metal suit and the two have enough problems of their own to be dealing with Tony.

Then Steve just bulldozes his way in one day... literally bulldozes, threatening to break the door down if FRIDAY doesn't open it, and marching in with all the fierce, unbreakable steps of a tank drilling his way into Tony's workshop.

It's insane, and a bit scary, so Tony waits for what's probably going to be an intervention, but Steve just plops down onto a seat across from him, pulls out his sketchbook and starts drawing.

What.

Let him rephrase that.

 _What_.

Tony stares at Steve, long and hard and suspicious, but Steve just keeps drawing, occasionally _humming_ something under his breath that's just barely heard over the screech of Metallica.

What the actual butterfingers.

He keeps staring, and when it feels clear that Steve's not going to make a move soon, Tony goes back to his work, huddled and hunched over and extremely wary, just waiting for Steve to look up and sigh, _now son_...

Which would be seriously awkward, considering that they're the same age and all.

It never happens, Steve just sits and draws, and after an hour or so, he just vanishes, sketchbook and all.

It's insane.

Clint is next, coming in and brightly chattering about pranks and telling him stories as he fiddles with his arrows and occasionally picks something out of his pocket or off the workbench to toss and a scribbled red target on the door.

He always gets bullseye, and sighs a little, seeming a bit bored by his perfection, or sometimes, he'll be reading secret case files and get a pinched look on his face.

Sometimes, he'll come in with the latest remains of a prank (paint in his hair or a bedazzler in hand) on him, and inform Tony that he's hiding there, then just sit on a bench and hum cheerfully.

Tony waits for Clint to drop the act, drop the smile and get to the point, but he never does.

Each time, Clint just smiles brightly at him, picks up his stuff, and then he's out the door.

Then there's Natasha, who occasionally comes in and practices with weapons, or she'll just tie her hair up and sip some tea while she reads a book and curls her toes.

She is, like Steve, also silent, though much more of a quiet deadly than a respectfully soft.

Between breaths, Tony builds.

And while he builds machines, too, sometimes, he ends up building friendships instead.


	5. Chapter 5

**Reply to Guest:** Aw, thanks.

* * *

Between breaths, Bruce hides.

Because he is, and he's not afraid to admit it, a compete coward.

The rest of the world of heroes... Tony and Steve and Natasha and the rest of them... they're unafraid. Or rather, they may be terrified, but they're willing to face it. Bruce is only there because this is his penance. And sometimes, not even because of that. Sometimes he's just too tired to try running away, too exhausted to do anything but stay ready to fight because he knows that if he doesn't, if he tries to go back to his life of peace, SHIELD will find him again.

It's an ill, sick little feeling that sticks in the back of his throat with that knowledge, and though he's willing to acknowledge that it's true, he dislikes thinking about it.

For a man who made a career out of thinking, he sure doesn't like thinking much.

He thinks about that little fact with a twisted, bitter type of irony, and tries to pretend that it's not happening. That this world of gods and heroes is some far away thing, not the newest way that the universe wants to screw with him.

Except he can't. Not really.

Now when he can feel the Hulk inside of him, pulsing just beneath the skin, angry and cheerful and violent and gentle, childish and unrestrained.

He accidentally trips and for a moment, he thinks his skin flickers green.

After that, he grabs a few ration bars from the kitchen and locks himself in the Hulk-proof tank with a pillow and a few books for a few days. It's only him running out of food and Tony's trust that keeps him out, tentative and quiet, and for that time, he allows himself to act like he's not a walking time bomb.

It's on a day like that, him curled up in the corner of the Hulk-proof tank with a book in hand, that Thor comes in, a bright smile on his face and a book in hand.

Thor shuts the door behind him and when he catches sight of Bruce, his grin widens and he plops down on the pillow that Bruce is sitting on. "Banner!" He greets him cheerfully with a wave of the hand, book flashing ever so slightly, and Bruce catches the title, _The Murder of Roger Ackroyd._

"Thor," Bruce doesn't really know how to feel about the alien sitting next to him, so he just settles for a half smile that might end up turning into a frown as he asks, voice strained, "What are you doing here?"

Thor positively _beams_ at him, and Bruce takes a moment to wonder if they're sure that Thor's not actually the sun god or something, and then he declares, "I heard that you came here often and I thought that it must be comfortable, so I came in here to relax!"

Bruce _stares_ and he thinks, blanching, that there's no way that Thor _doesn't_ know the meaning of this tank and why Bruce is here, he understands that Thor's incredibly smart, but Thor's here and...

There's something incredibly honest about Thor's smiles. Full and wide and white, Thor only smiles when he feels like it. And though Bruce knows that he also smiles when he's gone thrill seeking, he also knows that Thor is smiling at him because he wants to be with Bruce, and is content to merely be in his presence, not a word needed to be exchanged between the two of them.

Bruce swallows, and says quietly, "I don't know if you can hold the Hulk down so long."

Thor's smile tightens ever so slightly and he asks quietly, "Banner, may I hold your hand?"

The sudden question throws him off a bit and he stammers, "Uh, sure, why would you..."

"I needed to make sure it would be okay," Thor takes his hand and squeezes it quickly, a moment, fast and warm, and then he says quietly, questioningly, "Why would I need to hold the Hulk down?"

 _If I lose it._ Bruce thinks. _If I lose control and the Hulk tries to smash you into bits._

Instead he squeezes Thor's hand back and doesn't answer, instead musing quietly, "Agatha Christie is quite the author, isn't she?"

Thor's grin looses the tight edge, going back to the warmth of before, and as he begins to chatter cheerfully about the story, Bruce thinks he's made the right call in asking that.

And suddenly the Hulk-proof cage feels less of a prison for himself, and more of simply a place to relax.


	6. Chapter 6

Between breaths, somehow Bruce's Hulk-proof tank becomes the meeting room of the Avengers, and everyone affiliated with them.

Case in point?

Bucky and Peter pull themselves into the tank, chattering excitedly, before spotting Bruce.

Peter gives an enthusiastic, full arm wave, hand flying from side to side as he literally bounces over to Bruce and greets him with a cheerful, "Hey, Bruce, do you think that we could kill someone with just papercuts?"

What.

"What."

Bucky made a low growling noise under his breath, "Look, kid, like I said, it may be a good torture technique, but paper can't _kill_ someone."

"If it can cut, it can kill!" Peter argued, throwing up his hands and scowling. This was obviously a very long running conversation, though why, the reason eluded Bruce.

"Guys..." Bruce sighed and closed his book, rubbing his temples as he wondered _how has my life turned into this_. "This is a stupid argument."

Their disruption was almost worth the looks on their faces, he reflected. Totally priceless.

Peter looked incredibly insulted as he exclaimed, "It is _not_! This is... This is..."

"This is a discussion of military strategy!" Bucky agreed, crossing his arms over his chest and sticking his lower lip out into a pout. (What was Bruce's life, that he dealt with pouting former part cyborg assassin people?) "Extremely important."

"Right," Bruce gave Bucky the same look that he gave Tony and Bucky gave Steve, the I-would-totally-argue-with-you-but-you're-being-so-stupid-that-I-can't-even-like-seriously-are-you- _stupid_ -what-are-you- _thinking_ -this-is _-_ Clint-level-stuff-you-idiot look. (Or, for short, the IWTAWYBYBSSTICELSAYSWAYTTICLSYI. Well, actually, that was super long, too. Tony had also dubbed it the 'dubious mom' look, though, and Bruce was _never_ going to accept that.)

"He's giving us the _mom look_!" Peter whined, throwing up his hands and turning to Bucky. "Come _on_! I thought this was a you only thing!"

Bucky shrugged, "To be fair, I only really look at Steve like that."

Bruce snickered, "Poor Steve," he grinned at Peter, who smiled brightly back, glad to have Bruce laughing with him instead of giving him the dubious mom look.

"So, whatchya doing in here by yourself?" Peter popped down into a crouch next to Bruce, that blinding smile still lighting his features as he pressed an elbow onto Bruce's shoulder and leaned his head onto the crook of his arm. "Ooh, a book on ancient Rome? Sounds fun."

Bruce swatted at Peter's head, but ended up sort of just ruffling it like Tony when he was feeling especially fond of the kid.

(No. He refused to turn into Tony when Tony was in Dad Mode.)

(He refused to be the parent of the Avengers. Just no. They had Steve and Tony for that. Bruce would be the reclusive, moody teen.)

(Yes. That sounded good.)

"Ancient Rome, hm?" Humming cheerfully, Bucky fell down next to Bruce and laughed as he mimicked Peter's position, his flesh arm pressing lightly against Bruce's shoulder as he nuzzled his head against Bruce's ear. "Is it interesting?"

Bruce sighed, aiming for exasperation but accidentally ending up fond instead. "Very," He admitted, running his fingers over the spine. "Do you know much about ancient Rome?"

Something strangely wistful flickered across Bucky's features, before a wide smile replaced it, white teeth and crinkling eyes. "Nah. Dropped out of school to..." He coughed, and Bruce knew not to pry. "So, ancient Rome. Tell us about it, doc."

"Yeah, tell us, doc!" Peter agreed cheerfully.

Bruce sighed, but began, "So, a lot of people think that in ancient Rome, gladiators always fought to the death, but this is actually a myth, they only sometimes did it because they were actually quite expensive to buy and train..."

Between breaths, Bruce tells Bucky and Peter about ancient Rome.


	7. Chapter 7

Between breaths, Wanda doesn't sleep.

It's not that she can't. Or at least, she _thinks_ she can sleep if she wanted. (She doesn't know anymore. It's been so long, and she's tired, but she _can't_.)

She's too terrified of nightmares to sleep, too afraid of seeing the explosion of her world tearing apart and hearing the roar of soldiers and hearing the shrill shriek of her own voice as she tells the scientists to stop, that she's tired, that she can't do anything else, can see Pietro on the ground, eyes wide, torso red as her mind shrieks that she could have stopped the bullets, couldn't she?

With Pietro, it was so much easier, the warmth of his breath against the nape of her neck, his arms around hers as he promised to keep her safe and she (perhaps foolishly) believed him.

With the scientists, it was a bit harder, the wall between them, behind glass like animals in the zoo, revenge consuming her even as Pietro slammed into walls, promising that he'd get to her somehow, her playing with the little toys the scientists had given her as she told him that they could finally get their revenge, stupidly believing that it could somehow make her happy again.

Except now she doesn't have her brother, she knows revenge is stupid, and so she's left with sleepless nights, too afraid to fall asleep for fear of nightmares.

Vision catches her when she sneaks into the kitchen little before midnight, surprise flickering over his features before he notes, "You should be asleep."

"And you shouldn't?" She retorts, wanting to smile but too sleepy and grouchy to do so, despite the fact that this _is_ Vision, who usually can make her smile with just a hello. "It's quite late, don't you think?"

"I don't need sleep," Vision answers pointedly, and Wanda can't help but think, _ah, of course_ , before Vision continues, "But I'm fairly sure that, no matter what special powers you have, you _do_ need some sleep."

"I'm not tired," Wanda answers, forcing her voice to stay lighter than she feels, and her body decides that's a good moment to betray her with a yawn. "Um." At the moment, _Peter_ could probably talk more smoothly than her.

Vision waited.

Wanda's gaze traveled down to her feet, and she wriggled her toes, eyeing them tiredly, before she sighed, "Do you ever just..." Her voice trailed off, her hand hanging in the air like an idiot.

Vision tilted his head to the side, as though he were trying to scan her and see what she was trying to say, but evidently he can't quite figure it out, because he eventually just prompts her, voice slow and curious, "Just...?"

She chews on her lower lip and looks away, knowing that she probably looks suspicious but honestly just too exhausted to care. "Never mind," She sighs, knowing that she must sound like Tony (soft and snarky and biting and trying so hard to appear strong when he's self destructing), and wondering why.

"Do you know who you sound like?" Vision sounds almost amused, but she can hear the concern bleeding through, and she's almost not sure which would be worse, the fact that he's trying to cover it up or that she wishes it weren't there.

Wanda puffs out her cheeks and then puffs out the air, slow and loud, then she grumbles, "Yeah, I know."

"Then you know how stupid you're being," Vision concludes, and Wanda can't help but laugh at that, a low, surprised sound that bubbles from her lips.

"I guess so," She agrees wryly, and suddenly, holding his hand, she's not so afraid of the nightmares anymore.


	8. Chapter 8

Between breaths, Sam doesn't allow himself to slack.

Slacking means that he stops working, stops fighting, and that's something that he knows he can't allow himself to do, not when he's on this insane team full of super people and the insanity that comes with them.

Steve finds him at work in the gym little before 6am and raises an eyebrow. "And here I was, thinking I would be without company," he greets Sam with an amused smile as he pushes himself off the wall and starts towards Sam. "Bad night?"

Sam drops to the nearby bench and takes a sip of his water. His head's pounding, and despite the fact that he's too tired to do anything else, there's still something jittery and restless to the way that his leg bounces impatiently. "Yeah," He agrees, closing his eyes. He hasn't quite realized how tired he was, hasn't really thought about it, but he's exhausted.

Steve sits down next to him and offers Sam a light smile. "Wanna talk about it?"

Sam squints at Steve, "Nah, I'm over it." He responds with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I just can't go back to sleep."

Which. It was true. He's tired enough to drop, _now_ , but Steve doesn't need to know that.

Somehow, by the disappointed look on Steve's face, Sam thinks he knows anyways.

"Come on, Sam," Steve's hand continues to keep him down on the bench, and his eyes soften like the way that Bruce's sometimes do when he looks at Tony, or how Natasha will look when Clint does something particularly Clint-like (which is often. He is, after all, Clint). "What's up?"

Sam shrugs, and he tries to divert Steve's attention by asking, "Hey, didn't you go to a cafe with Bucky the other day?" He elbowed Steve lightly. "Is something going on here?"

It worked. Steve instantly turned bright red, and he shook his head as he shouted, "Nope, nope, not going down that route today!" and all but fled from Sam to the other side of the room.

Sam laughed, and noted, "You're as easy to rile up as always." Steve stuck out his lower lip into a pout, but Sam brushed it off with a light laugh. "Oh, come on, as though you and Bucky _aren't_ a thing?"

"Not like _that_!" Steve protested vehemently, and Sam snickered.

"Steve and Bucky sitting in a tree, K-I-S-"

"Stoooop!"

More laughter.

Between breaths, Sam doesn't allow himself to slack.

But he allows himself to relax. Their lives, after all, aren't about a war.

Their lives are just about living and enjoying it with others. Being an Avengers is about the family, not the fighting.


	9. Chapter 9

**Warning:** Swearing.

 **Reply to soup(Guest):** Thanks!

* * *

Between breaths, Clint watches the others.

He knows that if he doesn't watch the others, nobody will take care of themselves.

It's usually just a little nudge, watching and analyzing the situation before he gives his team members a gentle little push. Sometimes just a tap.

If Steve feels overwhelmed, Clint will make a light note to Peter, "Do you think that ice cream parlors were different back in the time of our fearless leader?" he asks teasingly and watches as the gears in Peter's smart brain start to click like crazy.

Or he'll wait until the third day that Bruce has spent shut up in the Hulk proof tank and he'll just casually drop the information in a conversation with Thor. "Haven't seen Bruce in a while," Clint will muse and allow Tony to go off in the inevitable rant about how he's spending time in the tank again.

It's an easy thing to do, and it's his job, watching over his teammates and waiting for them to grow into something more than people just thrown together.

His job is to allow the Avengers to form, nothing more and nothing less.

In this, Natasha claims that sometimes Clint forgets about taking care of himself.

Which, Clint will say, is totally bull. (Clint will be lying, but whatever. Nobody's going to call him out on it.)

Except he gets a day to come where he's having a panic attack in the middle of their living room because The Puppeteer has just gotten control of Chat Noir. Which is totally stupid. Because it's just a dumb cartoon, right?

But it's hitting a little too close to home, and so here Clint is, on the ground, trying to figure out whether or not he's been poisoned and why he hadn't been able to detect it before.

Except there's no poison, just Clint and his fucked up mental health, and Natasha is staring at him with the same look that people sometimes give her, like she's worried about him but also terrified that he'll just up and attack her any second.

Which.

Clint really doesn't know how to feel about that.

He doesn't really want to think (or rather, he can't really think, he might be _dying_ or something) so he just focuses on breathing instead. Except breathing is hard. Really fucking hard. It takes so much effort, and Clint thinks it be easier to stop, but stopping hurts so he just keeps breathing while Stark tries to tell him to focus on his voice, forced calm and forced steadiness, except he fucking _can't_ , it's so hard and Clint is just...

He breathes.

In.

Out.

Fuck.

Didn't this kind of thing just happen to Stark? Or the kid. Panic attacks happened to those two. The idiots who went and acted like fucking martyrs.

Clint's not a martyr. He's not going to throw away his life for the others. He's not a hero, not like they are.

(Except he is, isn't he? The irony of it, he's the hero to the heroes and here he ends up, being a fucking martyr and giving away his life for the sake of the others realizing that they need to get one.)

When he's finished with his panic attack, they just sit in silence.

Their cartoon has long since been turned off, and everyone's just kind of gaping at him. Which.

Clint doesn't know. He doesn't really know anymore. He's just... tired? Whatever. Fuck.

"Forgot to look after yourself, Legolas?" Stark asks, cocking an eyebrow, but there's a weariness to his voice that isn't usually there and for some reason it ticks Clint off.

"I'm fine," He mutters, and they all shoot him incredulous looks.

"You had a _panic attack_ ," Peter replies slowly, carefully, like Clint is an invalid and can't understand.

Which. He guesses, he kind of can't. "Right," Clint breathes, slow and steady. "Right."

Between breaths, Clint watches the others.

But the others are watching him, too.


	10. Chapter 10

Between breaths, they come to the realization that most of them have never really experienced Christmas.

Natasha, for her part, just flips her hair and shrugs, "I never really saw the need," she shrugs, clearly uninterested in the subject.

Bruce shuffled and played nervously with the cuff of his sleeve, smiling awkwardly as he answered, "I celebrated it before, it's just that after the incident..."

Thor, for his part, had an excuse. "Is it a Midgardian celebration?" He asked curiously over a stack of pancakes.

Tony hadn't bothered to really do much, saying, "I just buy people cool gifts, right? It's not like there's much else to do. Christmas is just about sending the coolest gifts or whatever, yeah?"

Vision is also pretty obvious. "It's just a consumerist holiday," he says lightly, "Mainly for the children, really."

Wanda taps a finger against her leg and smiles awkwardly, "We were so consumed... _I_ was so consumed by the desire for revenge that I guess I sort of..." Her gaze flickers, lowers, and she sighs.

Clint laughs, "Last Christmas, I got attacked by Russian ninjas." They decide not to pursue that particular story.

Steve and Bucky both laugh, "Last Christmas... well, last one that I remember, I mean... I think I managed to get some bread," Steve says fondly and Bucky nods, "I got half of it. It was great."

Therefore, the two only "normal" members of the team, Peter and Sam, begin to plot together. "Steve was happy about a loaf of _bread_!" Sam hisses, " _Bread_!"

"It _was_ the Great Depression," Peter points out, and Sam narrows his eyes.

"Not. The. Point."

"Right," Peter shifts his fingers along the cuff of his sleeves and frowns, "Mr. Stark seems to think that Christmas is just about the money."

"They're all idiots," Sam muses.

"Yeah," Peter agrees, "Guess we'll just have to show them what Christmas is _really_ about, yeah?"

Sam grins, sharp teeth and wide lips, "Oh _yeah_."

* * *

Operation Make Christmas Awesome begins with coercing Tony, Steve and Bucky into making cookies, which Sam decides to oversee.

"Wait, first, put on this," Tony hands Sam some goggles, "And try not to stand so close that I can burn your face off."

"Duly noted," Sam answers drily, "I'm here to talk to you about making some cookies with me."

"Making cookies?" Tony raises an eyebrow, "Why?"

"Because Christmas is a time where you make cookies," Sam answers, laughing when Tony's face scrunches up, "It's tradition."

"Christmas is just like any other time, though," Tony shrugs and continues welding, "If you want cookies, I can import some from Europe for you. Most of my girlfriends before liked them, so they're probably high quality."

Sam buries his face in his hands and thinks _Lord above help me please thanks amen._ Outwardly, he says, "It's not about the cookies, Tony."

Tony shrugs and keeps welding, "Of course not. It's about getting cool stuff."

Sam wants to rip the welding machine from Tony's hands and just shake him, then hug him, because Sam is a Complex Human Being. "It's not about the cool stuff, Tony. And it's not about anything to do with money, either. It's about spending time with people that are important to you."

Tony's hand finally, _finally_ stills and he turns off the welding machine. "I'm not that important," he answers, soft and unsure.

"Sorry to break it to you, but you kind of are." Sam pats Tony's shoulder, "I know, it's very strange to live with the knowledge that people care about you. Take it in. We're making cookies at 12, and if you're late, I will find you and drag you there myself."

"Like you could," Tony teases, but there's a small, pleased smile playing on the edges of his lips.

 _Oh yes_ , Sam thinks, _I could work with this_.

* * *

Steve and Bucky, for their part, agree easily enough, with enough excitement for multiple small children.

" _Cookies_!" Bucky exclaims, too caught up in rapturous wonder to do anything but laugh. "Aw man, only the really rich people got that stuff!" He glances at Tony, and he shifts his feet awkwardly, laughing, "I guess _we're_ kind of rich now."

"Anyone can get cookies," Peter answers quietly, nudging Bucky and smiling softly, "Especially Earth's Mightiest Heroes."

Bucky turns bright red, a shy smile pulling at the edges of his lips. "Yeah, we totally deserve cookies."

"Not without helping," Sam teases, "I can't bake enough for all of you black holes by myself."

"Of course!" Steve says quickly.

"I'm joking," Sam, already used to Steve taking things a tad too seriously, flicks him on the forehead. "You get cookies whether you help or not. We'd just be pleased to have the pleasure of your company, is all."

"Yeah, it's not every day that you get the chance to bake cookies with Captain America," Peter jokes.

Tony uses Peter's head as an armrest and grins, "What, not geeking out about baking cookies with Iron Man?"

"You'd do anything with me, and you know it," Peter answers lightly.

Tony smiles sheepishly, knowing that he can't even argue that. "Alright, fine, kid, you got me. So, what kind of cookies are we making?"

* * *

They ambush Natasha and Clint at the training grounds.

"Oh my _Pythagorean,_ " Peter groans, rubbing two fingers into his temples, "It's _Christmas_. What are you _doing_?"

"Christmas is just another date on the calendar," Natasha says, flipping over Clint and knocking his knees from under him.

Clint falls forwards, hooking his knees to smash his feet into Natasha. She jumps up and he flips up fast enough to tackle her midair, "Can't slack on training," he agrees, smiling easily as they fall down in a (somehow elegant) tumble of limbs.

Peter jumps on to the mat and lands on Clint's back, "It's not _slacking,"_ He whines, "It's called taking a break. Your muscles can't get stronger without you letting them rest, you know."

Clint makes a big show of staggering under Peter's weight, despite Peter knowing that he can carry around _Bucky_ effortlessly. "Right, kid, and I'm sure that your motivations are purely for the sake of efficiency."

"Completely," Peter agrees, baring his teeth into a grin.

"Come on, kid, it's just a holiday," Natasha raised an eyebrow, "You can't let your guard down."

Peter puffs his cheeks out and shakes his head, "It's not about letting your guard down. It's just about being... happy."

"I am happy," Natasha raises an eyebrow.

"It's about spending time with family."

"It's about _consumerism_."

"I guess you don't want the new ankle weights that I bought you, then..."

"Let's not be hasty."

Peter grins, knowing that Natasha has given in, "We're watching Elf at 7. There will be 10 different types of cookies."

Clint, of course, immediately begins to protest, "Wait, kid, we didn't agree to..."

"Love you, bye!"

And he's zoomed away, laughing all the while.

* * *

Wanda doesn't quite know what to make of the tree in the living room or the stacks of presents beneath it.

"Oh, I don't know," she tells Peter and Thor, gesturing with a hand, "It all just seems so... I don't know... grandiose. Like a little man puffing out his chest to try and seem bigger than he truly is."

"All the gifts?" Thor asks, tilting his head to look at them. "I can understand having so many as a show of display, but it seems impractical to give gifts such like this when you could just as easily hang a giant's head above your door."

Peter, being the only sensible and sane one of the group, buries his face in his hands and shakes his head. "It's not about a show of power, or puffing out your chest," he answers, twisting the hem of his shirt. "It's about giving to people because you love them, and you want to give gifts. As for why there's so many, there are..." He does a mental tally, "Like, 11 of us. And if everyone gets someone else a gift..." He shrugs, "That's a _lot_ of gifts."

Wanda lowers her eyes and smiles, "So you simply buy things for others because you love them? No other reason or rhyme?"

"No, it must be like a bartering system," Thor rubs his chin, "For example, if I do not give the Man of Iron his gift, he will not give me mine."

"No, it's not like that!" Peter is quick to interject, waving his hands and shaking his head. "It's just about giving for the sake of giving. Like Wanda, the other day, you gave Bucky some of your bread, right?"

Wanda blinks and nods, "Yeah."

"Why?" Peter asks, leaning forward and raising his eyebrow.

"Because eating bread made him... oh, I think I understand now."

"Yeah," Peter leans back and grins, satisfied, "Christmas isn't about the gifts. It's about being with the people that you love, and trying to make them smile just for the sake of it all."

"It sounds wonderful," Thor says softly, and Peter squeezes his hand.

"I'm glad that you're here with us," he says, and Thor smiles back.

* * *

Bruce and Vision are recruited to help set up the tree.

"I don't see the point of this," Vision muses, "I just can't logically understand how this will be efficient or helpful to anything at all."

"It's like when we play board games together," Sam explains, looping some tinsel around the base of the tree, "It's not meant to be efficient or really helpful to anything. It's just meant for us to be together, and to be happy."

"So it's a bonding exercise," Bruce concludes, and Sam can't help but laugh at that.

"Not exactly an exercise," He grins, "You make it sound like a chore. We like to be with you, just for the sake of being with you."

"Oh," Bruce falls silent and hangs up yet another ornament. "Well, I, um, like being with you, too."

"Thanks, man," Sam grins and thinks, _maybe they'll experience a good Christmas after all._

Between breaths, they watch _Elf_ and chuck cookies at each other.


	11. Chapter 11

Between breaths, Peter builds robots.

Not great, giant robots like that of Tony's calibre. Nowhere near Dum-e, even. Oh, they're sure that he _could_ if he truly _wanted_ to... it's just that Peter finds comfort in twitching his fingers to the little whirs and beeps of easy, simple robots, wiring that doesn't require much thought as he absentmindedly twiddles with it while he talks with someone or while they're watching television.

It stuns the others, honestly, to see him do something so brilliant so easily, fingers fiddling and breath calm as though he were born to do this. (Maybe, Tony thinks proudly, he was. Peter seems to breathe the wiring, the coding, so easily, though when questioned about it he just laughs it off. _I learned about it in school,_ he answers lightly. Or, _Mr. Stark was telling me..._ as though it's not stunning that he can understand it so easily.)

"Kid, you're a genius," Clint says, only half joking. (Peter, of course, just laughs it off.)

This is in one such instance when Peter is talking with Wanda and fiddling with the wires of... something.

"No _way_ ," he openly gapes at her, eyes wide and smiles crookedly, "You seriously just replaced all the shampoo with whipped cream?"

"In my defence, Clint was involved," Wanda peers curiously at the lump of metal in his fingers, "What are you making?"

"Oh, this?" Peter popped open one of the edges to expose pale pink wires, "I'm trying to make something that glows. Preferably purple," He stuck his tongue between his teeth and scrunched up his nose, "But I'm not..." The wire flew in the air and Wanda snapped her fingers to catch it, "...picky. Thanks."

"No problem," Wanda handed him the wire and raised her eyebrows, "Why do you want to make something that glows purple?"

Peter frowned at his clump of metal and then offered Wanda a small laugh, "Because it sounds cool, I guess. I don't have any real reason to want to do it... I just want to."

"It looks like a complex process, though," Wanda squinted at something that might have been a light bulb, "If you didn't have a reason, why would you go through such a difficult process?"

"Oh, it's not difficult," Peter promised, popping the square of metal back into place, "It just looks this way. You only need three things, really. A power source..." He showed her a small battery hidden by the wall of wires and metal, "A path for the energy to travel through," he held up the wire, "...and something to do what you need it to do."

He tapped the lightbulb and bared his teeth into a grin.

"Easy, right?"

"You make it sound easy," Wanda admitted, "But I don't think I'd be able to do it."

"I'm sure you can," Peter reassured her lightly, shoving the clump of metal into her hands. "See, you don't even need this metal outside, but I'm planning on cutting some stars into it so that it makes purple stars on my ceiling or something. I think that would be fun. But anyways, if you tear this away..." He ripped the metal away with startling ease, and Wanda recalled with a start that Peter had super strength. "It might be easier for you to see."

"So these..." Wanda pointed to a wire, "Are pathways for the energy to travel through?"

"Right," Peter beamed at her, "The energy is like a bunch of cars, and these wires are like a highway, but it's looped. Let's say that the cars start at a gas station," he pointed to the battery, "So their tanks are full, right? Then they go... where do you want them to go?"

Wanda tucked her hands under her chin and rested her elbows on the table. "How about to an ice cream store?" She giggled.

"To an ice cream store it is," Peter bobbed his head into a nod, "So, they get to the ice cream store. But then they're almost out of fuel, right? So they have to go back to the gas station to refuel, or else they can't go back to the ice cream store."

"Why can't they stay at the ice cream store?" Wanda furrowed her brow, "Why do they need to go back?"

"Well..." Peter frowned and rubbed his nose, "In reality, they need a recharge. But for this analogy..." A crooked smile pulled at the corners of his lips and he laughed, airy and sheepish, "I guess I haven't really thought it through that well."

"It's alright," Wanda smiled, idly playing with some random wires on the table, levitating them and twisting her fingers in the air, "I think I may understand."

"Oh, that's," Peter smiles, shy but bright, "That's good! Do you want to help me make this, then? Or you could make, you could make something yourself. If you don't want to help me, that is."

Wanda can't help but laugh at his eagerness and stretches out a piece of metal so that it's thin and round. "What if we make a sphere that works like the map from Treasure Planet?"

"Oh _yeah_ ," Peter breathes, stars in his eyes and a laugh on his lips. "Omigosh, that would be _so cool_! Let's do it, let's do it!"

"Alright," Wanda tucks her hands under her chin and smiles at Peter, "Where do we start?"

"Well, we can start by cutting out metal and gears so that..."

Between breaths, Peter and Wanda build weird robot imitations from movies (because they're adorkable geeks).


	12. Sam Bakes

**A/N:** Kind of (and by kind of I mean 100%) stole the idea of Sam baking from the amazing _Fernandidilly-yo_ , you need to go check them out.

* * *

Between breaths, Sam bakes.

And nothing too fancy, not like Tony's caterers or like any experienced person with an apprenticeship in baking or anything like that, he just. Bakes.

Easy things, like chocolate chip cookies and vanilla cakes and sometimes, if he's in a good mood, he'll make you a strawberry smoothie that tastes like something you'd find in a five-star restaurant.

It's at times like these that Bucky likes to join him, watching silently and marvelling at the sheer number of things _available_ to put into the batter.

He's like a cat, Sam thinks to himself, watching the way that Bucky sidles up to the counter and watches with roving eyes, back muscles tense and weight distributed to his legs, though his position makes it look as though he's resting on his arms. Smooth and lithe, Sam thinks, Bucky hasn't lost any of the agile grace from when he was the Winter Soldier.

"What, you get bored of hanging out with Stevie?" Sam teases as he folds the batter for some sugar cookies.

"What, you think I always hang out with Stevie?" Bucky tosses back, raising an eyebrow.

"No, no, of course not," A slight smirk lights on Sam's lips, "You also like braiding your hair with Nat, right?" At Bucky's narrowed eye stare, he sighs, "Nothing wrong with that, it's nice to see you being comfortable with everyone else."

Bucky plays with the tips of his hair and then stares at the spatula in Sam's hands, forehead creasing. Sam can tell that he wants to change the subject but isn't sure how polite it would be. He's strange like that sometimes, having no sense of privacy but still attempting to retain something of what he once was, still trying to figure out where the line is drawn and how far he has to go to reach it.

"Sugar cookies," Sam says, pulling some aluminum foil from the cupboards. "Want to help?"

Bucky hesitates, childish eagerness lighting his eyes but the hesitancy that saturates his every movement slowing him down as he says quietly, wistfully, "Ma used to tell me stories about sugar cookies, but I never thought that they were _real_."

It hurts, hearing things like that. Watching Steve's eyes light up as they get _vegetables, real-life vegetables_ for dinner, watching Bucky marvel at how _soft_ the pillows on the couch are (not even Tony's fancy little silk pillows, just normal ones lying on the couch), hearing the two of them trade stories of the strange new world and how it amazes them with its consumeristic ways and excessive abundance.

Sam hates it. He does, hates how Steve seems so reverent over such simple things, hates that Bucky is awed when he eats his fill and isn't hungry when he finishes his plate, hates it so much that he might scream.

But the moments that make them happy.

Like here.

 _Sugar cookies._

He hates that Bucky thinks they didn't exist.

Hates that Bucky lived in an age where sugar was something _special_ , for birthdays and Christmas and not much else.

But he loves seeing Bucky smile like this.

He loves that he can spoil him like crazy, and no one calls him out on it because _everyone_ does it.

He likes that.

"Wait until you eat them," Sam grins, "They're amazing."

Bucky beams, a grin splitting his face, cheeks wide and eyes blazing like a fire. "I'm going to eat them all!" He says, excitedly, like a child on Christmas.

Sam laughs and dares not to contradict Bucky, deciding instead to hold out his hand. Palm up, still on the counter. A way that the Avengers have developed for touches, fond and soft, without triggering someone.

Bucky beams and rests his hand on Sam's, giving it a tight, excited squeeze.

"Maybe save some for the others?" Sam laughs, "Like three. One for Steve, one for Peter, and one for Wanda."

Bucky raises an eyebrow. "And the others?"

Sam pretends to think about it.

"Clint and Natasha bedazzled all of my shirts last week," he recalls.

Bucky hides his smile, ducking down his head and Sam's eyes widen.

"You helped them, didn't you, you little sneak," he gasps, and Bucky snickers. Same shakes his head, sighing, "Okay, fine, you're saving _four_ cookies. I'm taking one, just for that. Jerk, do you realize how long it took to take all the studs out?"

Bucky blinks at Sam, eyebrows raised, "You're just taking one?" He pauses, and smile returning, " _So_ worth it."

Sam swats Bucky's arm and shakes his head, "Come here and help me put the dough on the tray."

In the end, Bucky eats himself sick on half the batch and Tony puts the rest in the fridge, citing, "I'm not about to let you barf all over my floor, tots," grinning as he sneaks one off the tray (he's nowhere near subtle, he knows it and they know it, but he knows that they'll let him get away with it and that's really all that matters).

By the next day, though, the cookies are gone, and there are crumbs on Bucky's bed.

Sam just sighs and ruffles Bucky's hair. "We'll make pancakes next week, okay?"

Bucky's wide grin makes Sam wonder if they could just forget any pretense of a diet and just make sweets forever.

(Thankfully, aliens attack a week later and he gets all the excess exercised away.)

Between breaths, Sam and Bucky bake.


End file.
